


Glitter and Gold

by BDBriggs



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen, it's got ryan haywood in it so if you're new don't read it but if you want to reminisce it's here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BDBriggs/pseuds/BDBriggs
Summary: IMPORTANT:I wrote this before Ryan’s ugly parting from the company. I don’t condone what he’s done, at all, whatsoever, but I don’t want to erase the works I’ve created because of his poor choices. Please avoid this if you don't want to read anything with him in it.***Many of the crew’s problems can be summed up with one name: Gavin. The guy is the mastermind behind just about everything that goes wrong. He’s the source of most pranks, the brains behind most of their terrible ideas, and he’s the most frustrating and fightable person in the goddamn city. Trouble follows the Golden Boy like a shadow. Problems spring up wherever he treads.This problem is not a conventional Gavin-Free-did-it problem, though, and Ryan doesn’t quite know what to do. Here’s the thing: Golden Boy is afraid of the Vagabond.
Comments: 95
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of The Usual.

Ryan may or may not be internally panicking. Not a whole lot, or anything, it’s just—Gavin. To be fair, a lot of the crew’s problems can be summed up with that one name: Gavin. The guy is the mastermind behind just about everything that goes wrong. He’s the source of most pranks, the brains behind most of their terrible ideas, and he’s the most frustrating and fightable person in the goddamn city. Trouble follows the Golden Boy like a shadow. Problems spring up wherever he treads.

This problem is not a conventional Gavin-Free-did-it problem, though, and Ryan doesn’t quite know what to do.

See, Geoff paired the Vagabond and the Golden Boy on a mission together.

Normally, Ryan would trust his boss’s judgement. He’s never seen Geoff steer them wrong. He’s had faith in every one of Geoff’s plans so far. But this? This seems like a horrible, terrible, no-good idea that’s going to get one or both of them killed.

Here’s the problem: Golden Boy is afraid of the Vagabond.

He has been since Ryan joined the crew, if not before. Ray and Michael stood between the Vagabond and Gavin the first time he met the Fakes. Before his first job with the crew, Ryan had worked things out with Geoff to where he was never in direct contact with the Golden Boy, and that plan held through all of their missions so far. Ryan causes chaos on heists, plays guard dog for Geoff, helps Michael acquire equipment for jobs and games, runs distraction for Ray on jobs, and helps Jack with her vehicles. He never, ever, _ever_ works with Gavin.

And now, suddenly, out of the goddamn blue, Geoff wants him to work with Gavin on a mission. They’ll essentially be alone together, Ryan taking on his standard guard dog role while Gavin takes on Geoff’s role as negotiator. It’s for a meeting with a shitty little crew with its territory by the docks in Los Santos, and Ryan honestly has no idea why Geoff wants them to negotiate at all, but he doesn’t particularly care. He’ll leave the talking and convincing to the Golden Boy.

Jesus _Christ_, he’s really going to work with Gavin for the first time. It shouldn’t be making him so anxious. There’s no reason for him to be worried. Even from what little he’s seen, the Golden Boy is smooth and professional in the field. Gavin dons this air of superiority and _snobbishness_ that somehow makes everyone listen to him. He has no doubt in Gavin’s abilities; honestly, Ryan’s more worried _he’ll_ fuck up Gavin’s focus or something equally ridiculous.

He needs to stop worrying. He’s jingling his leg up-down-up-down, tapping his fingers against his gun restlessly. He wills himself to be calm, to breathe, to relax. He slips his phone out of his pocket, glances at the time. Just a few more minutes until Gavin’s set to meet him in the garage. They’ll take Ryan’s Zentorno, because Gavin’s stupid little purple Blista is nowhere near as menacing as they’d like to appear for this job. Ryan’s got the keys on his belt loop. They have gas. Ammo and an extra pistol are in the glovebox, extra ammo and some bigger guns in the trunk. _They’ll be fine_.

The elevator opens with a cheerful _ding!,_ nearly sending Ryan flying from his spot on the bench by the repair bay. The Golden Boy walks out, decked out in his usual designer clothes and gold sunglasses, hair styled to perfection. Gavin grins at him, and there’s only a little tightness to it, only a little bit of stress behind it. Ryan breathes. Maybe this won’t be too bad.

“Heyo,” Gavin greets cheerily. “Ready to be off?”

Ryan hums in agreement, fumbles his keys, and manages to _lock_ the Zentorno instead of unlocking it.

Fuck.

Fuck supercars and their key fobs and their locks that, if you lock them while they’re already locked, they beep loudly and incessantly. Thank _fuck_ for the facepaint, because Ryan’s blushing horribly underneath it. Hopefully Gavin can’t see the red tint on his neck as the blush spreads down to his chest.

A moment more of fumbling gets the damn car to shut up, but Ryan’s ears ring after the godawful shrieking beeps. “Sorry,” he mutters, “wrong button.”

Gavin laughs at him, shoulders drooping and relaxing, and _fine._ If being a fumbling idiot is what gets Gavin to relax, then so be it.

They get into the car together and drive off in near silence. Gavin fiddles absentmindedly with the radio, turning it to some pop station Ryan doesn’t particularly care for, but whatever. If music will calm Gavin, that’s fine. It’s not like it bothers him outright—Gavin’s taste in music is nowhere near as awful as Geoff’s punk rock, at least. Gavin hums along to the music a little, fiddling with his golden pistol, but the movements don’t look jerky and worried. It looks more like a habit than anything.

Ryan pulls up to the docks slowly, lights on to illuminate the dark, empty lot before them. “You ready?” He asks.

Gavin nods. “Sure am,” and _there_ it is, there’s the Golden Boy persona Ryan’s learned to look for. Ryan’s shoulders relax minutely. Gavin’s business-tone reminds him an awful lot of Geoff. They’ve got this. They’ll be fine.

They get out, Ryan taking care to secure his gun to his side, Gavin stuffing his pistol into the waistband of his jeans with his shirt tucked over it. The negotiations are set to take place in a little office by the docks. It looks like it might have been a tourism office once, but the windows are boarded, the dulled paint graffitied over, the roof sunken in places.

Peachy.

Ryan enters first, notes the boarded windows and lack of an escape route. The office is tiny, barely large enough for six gang members to stand clustered around a wobbly old table with two briefcases on it. He takes his position just inside the doorway, to the side, allowing Gavin to move into the room beside him.

And it’s easy to relax, watching Gavin swagger in. He might weigh almost nothing, he might be skinny as a twig, and he might look for all the world like a rich little twink, but there’s something sharp and dangerous about the Golden Boy. Ryan doesn’t fully understand him, and he gets frustrated with Gavin’s _moronic_ antics at times, but there’s no way in hell he’d cross the Golden Boy. He’s not exactly afraid of Gavin, not like Gavin is terrified of the Vagabond, but he’s wary of him.

Gavin earned a place in the Fakes _somehow_. Nobody makes it into the Fake AH by being an idiot, or by being a piece of shit like Gavin sometimes strives to be. No, Gavin did something to earn his place, and he did even more to keep it. Besides that, Geoff must hold him in pretty high esteem to have sent him on this mission in his place.

The lesson here? _Do not fuck with Gavin_.

It’s a lesson the gang members in the meeting haven’t learned, apparently. Ryan must have spaced out, watching Gavin’s mannerisms and clear control over the situation, so he missed the conversation leading up to this point, but he certainly doesn’t miss the way Gavin’s shoulders stiffen when he inspects the briefcases laid open on the table.

“Are these _counterfeits_?” Gavin demands.

Lead Thug’s lips curl. He must not have expected Gavin to notice so quickly.

Gavin leans back from where he’d bent over the table, settles his weight evenly. It’s a fighting stance. Ryan holds very, very still, waiting for his cue to move. The five thugs around Lead Thug have tensed, several of them reaching for their guns. Ryan still lazily leans against the wall, arms crossed, shoulders loose, following Gavin’s lead of being ready but relaxed. And it works, really. Their easy stances seem to unsettle the thugs. He and Gavin are in control, here.

“Awfully rude of you, innit?” Gavin says quietly. “I ought to have the Vagabond shoot you for that.” He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t shift or give Ryan any indication that he should shoot.

The thugs don’t know that, though, and Ryan gets six guns leveled on him. Ryan doesn’t move an inch, but he does let his lips twitch into a minute smirk, just to further unsettle the thugs. He forewent the mask and wears the red-black-and-white facepaint, today, so the lines around his mouth stretch eerily along with his smirk.

“Or I could have him get out the knife,” Gavin continues, “he likes that kind of thing. Scalping people, gutting people, slitting throats, all that good stuff.” And yeah, okay, what the fuck? Ryan forces himself not to stare openly at Gavin as he lists things off. _No, _the Vagabond does not _scalp people_, thank you very much, but Gavin’s words hit their mark. The thugs’ eyes widen. They begin to glance between each other. They’ve all effectively boxed themselves in; the only way out is the door the Vagabond is guarding.

And they have to get past the _Golden Boy_ to get to the Vagabond. Gavin keeps talking. “He’s awfully good at getting information outta people, too. Maybe I’ll have him take one of you back with us, see what we can find out about these counterfeits here,” he jerks his chin towards the briefcases. “Or!” Gavin grins, “The docks are right here! Could tie you up, get you on one of the boats, throw you overboard out in the ocean.” Gavin grins, puts his hand on his hip, wiggles his thumb at Ryan, unseen by the thugs. “It’s nighttime. No one’s around here, and nobody checks the ocean floor for bodies.”

Gavin reaches for his gun and Ryan’s pulling the trigger on his before the thugs have the time to react. He sprays an arc to Gavin's right, hitting the thugs he can shoot without endangering his crewmate, and Gavin gets the other two. The damn idiots were so horrified by Gavin’s words that they’d lowered their guns. They hadn’t been prepared to shoot.

“There’s got to be spare rope around here somewhere,” Gavin says, looking around, “there’s boats around and all.”

Ryan shoots him a bewildered look. “You were serious?”

Gavin grins at him, and there’s something sharp and menacing in it. It’s not the friendly grin he gives the crew, no, this is the Golden Boy in his element. This is someone Ryan’s never really met before. “Easy body disposal,” he says, “why not?”

Ryan shrugs. Why the hell not? They set off to find rope, finding a few coils in a nearby storage shed. It’s thick stuff, meant for boats more than tying people up, and it smells like old seawater, but it’ll do. They set to tying up the bodies, some of them still breathing, and Ryan’s mildly impressed that Gavin doesn’t flinch away from the blood, doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. They use one of Ryan’s knives to cut the rope, and Gavin outright laughs when one of the thugs whimpers. Gavin tears a few slices from a dead thug’s shirt and gags the live ones, grinning all the while, and alright—it’d be unsettling if Ryan didn’t grin so much to fuck with his targets, too.

It’s a mask, Ryan realizes. The Golden Boy is a menacing mask not unlike the Vagabond. Which means that, so far, Ryan’s really only met _Gavin_. He supposes that if he’d met the Golden Boy first, he’d have been wary of him, too. As Ryan binds and gags the last thug, something hits him with crystal clarity.

Gavin’s never met Ryan. Maybe, just maybe, Gavin might not be so afraid of him if he could meet _Ryan_, rather than the Vagabond.

“Phew!” Gavin exclaims, leaning back on his haunches. “I’ve got blood all over my sneakers,” he laments.

Ryan looks down at himself. His hands and knees are covered in blood from tying up the thugs and kneeling in the puddles, and Gavin’s worried about his _sneakers? _ “I’m impressed you kept out of the puddles except for your shoes,” Ryan admits.

Gavin looks him over and snorts. “Not like I went rolling in it like you did,” he says. Ryan seriously considers pushing him over into the puddle next to him, but refrains from doing so out of the goodness of his heart. Also, there’s a couple of live thugs in front of them, and they’re still putting on a show.

“Find six heavy things,” Ryan says, standing, “I’ll take these guys to a boat.”

Gavin blinks at him. “Heavy things?”

Ryan grins. “Bodies float,” he says thoughtfully, “we’ll need six heavy things to weigh ‘em down.” Ryan hefts a thug over his shoulder, leaving without another word. There’s plenty of boats tied on the docks nearby; he finds a dingy capable of holding all the bodies and dumps the first thug inside. He and Gavin each make several trips to the dingy, Gavin having found a pile of cinderblocks nearby to weigh them down with.

Hotwiring a boat is apparently one of Gavin’s many odd skills, but Ryan doesn’t question it as the boat shudders to life, the engine loud in the otherwise-silent harbor. Ryan manages to maneuver the boat out into open waters without being followed, and he waits for Gavin to affix cinderblocks to each thug as he drives through open ocean. When they’ve chugged north past Los Santos, they start dumping bodies.

And Gavin, the beautiful bastard, leaves the live thugs for last. Ryan feels like he’s playing with his food at this point, but as they dump traitorous thugs one-by-one into the ocean behind them and watch bubbles rise in the moon-illuminated waves, he can’t help grinning. So Ryan enjoys creative murder; sue him.

It’s early morning by the time they return to the docks. They return the dingy to its place, taking care to dump water over the blood inside to wash it away. As an afterthought, they dump the briefcases full of counterfeits into the harbor, too. They get back into the Zentorno together, slightly bloodied and wet with seawater.

“Back to the penthouse?” Ryan asks, because sometimes the crew prefers to be dropped off at their own homes or safehouses if jobs go long.

Gavin hums. “Nah,” he says, “I’m hungry. Food, first?”

And Ryan’s surprised by the answer, but he’s hungry, too, and drive-thru food sounds pretty good right now, despite the godawful hour. “Up’N’Atom?”

“Up’N’Atom,” Gavin agrees.

They get shitty drive-thru burgers, fries, and milkshakes, and pull off onto one of the scenic vistas by the beach in Del Perro. It’s certainly not the worst morning Ryan’s ever spent; leaning against his car, watching the waves as the sky grows light behind them, munching on fast food. Gavin’s quiet beside him, leaning on the hood of the Zentorno, but it’s a companionable silence, not awkward. If Gavin was uncomfortable, he’d have asked to go back to the penthouse immediately.

“That was fun,” Ryan says at last, when they’re slurping at the last of their milkshakes. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but the world is beginning to rise and they should probably get back inside before anybody notices them.

“It was,” Gavin agrees, “and you didn’t even freak out back there, in the office.”

Ryan hums. “Threw me for a loop,” he admits, “but eh. I’ve said worse just to freak people out.”

Gavin turns to him and grins. “It’s fun, innit? It’s so easy to get people all riled up with just a few words.”

And Ryan knows exactly what he means. Why torture people physically, when you can psychologically scar them forever? It’s often infinitely more useful to scare the shit out of people than it is to murder them. Ryan would know; it’s how the Vagabond got his reputation. The Vagabond isn’t infamous for his murders; he’s infamous for _scaring everyone else_ with his murders. If he were a perfect assassin, no one would track his kills back to him. The Vagabond isn’t a perfect assassin; he’s there to send a message and instill fear.

Words and actions and scare tactics are his _job_. It’s what he gets paid to do, even on missions with the Fakes.

“Yeah,” Ryan says at last, “I know what you mean.”

Gavin gives him a long, lingering look. “We worked well together back there,” he says slowly, as if the realization just dawned on him.

“We did,” Ryan agrees.

“We should do it again, sometime,” Gavin says, looks away, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He’s nervous for the first time since before Ryan fumbled his keys in the garage.

Ryan smiles at him. “I’m always in if there’s creative murder involved,” he says lightly.

It startles a laugh out of Gavin, and there’s a warm moment where they grin at each other. A car drives by, startling them both into action. They both jolt and duck back into the Zentorno.

“Geoff’s probably worried you murdered me by now,” Gavin mutters, tapping away at his phone.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “I mean,” he grins, “_I’m_ not the one who started the murder-spree for once.” Gavin laughs, bright and loud, and Ryan speeds back to the penthouse.

There was no need to be anxious, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick announcement: I'm changing the update day to Wednesday. My schedule has changed to be heavy on Fridays and I just won't be able to get updates out on time. Updates will be on Wednesdays starting next week (Jan 29th).

Jack types away at her laptop while Geoff reports to her. It might seem backwards, to an outsider, but the two of them have a system. When one of them has information to report, they say it out loud while the other writes it down. It’s easier than sorting through their thoughts by themselves, they learned. When the Fakes were just beginning their work in Los Santos, their reports to the Roosters were messy, disjointed things. Burnie and Matt nearly despaired. So Jack came up with their little system to fix things, and by the time they reported to the B-team instead of the Roosters their reports had improved drastically.

Besides, it’s not a bad way to spend time, taking turns sipping from a bottle of whiskey while telling each other of the week’s events. It’s a comforting routine. Geoff paces and tells her of the relevant events while she types, then they trade and Jack sprawls across the couch or the chair to talk while Geoff types.

Geoff’s just finishing his report on his trip to Austin to visit the Roosters when his eyes light up. “Oh!” he straightens, pauses in his pacing. “I got the deal with those assholes by the docks straightened out,” he says, lips twisting into a smirk.

Jack knows that smirk, knows it means nothing good. Her fingers pause, hovering over her keyboard. “I’m going to guess ‘those assholes by the docks’ got murdered or blown to pieces while you were gone?” She asks wryly.

Geoff’s smirk grows into a grin. “You’re not wrong,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. Jack writes, _crew by the docks wiped out_, under the list of accomplishments for the week, but that’s just going to give Trevor a heart attack, isn’t it? She should probably elaborate on the _how _and _why_ and _by who._

“What happened?” Jack asks, “I thought you were going to wait on the meeting until you were back.”

Geoff throws himself down on the couch beside her, shakes his head. “They insisted on meeting on the sixth,” he grumbles, “so I sent Gavin to deal with ‘em instead.”

Jack blinks. Geoff takes a sip of whiskey, and she blinks again. “_Gavin?!”_ she demands. “You sent _Gavin?”_ Normally she wouldn’t be so upset, but the crew in question is well known for being violent and quick to anger. The thought of _Gavin_ going in there to deal with them turns her stomach.

Geoff gives her a bewildered look. “I—yeah?” He swirls the contents of the bottle as he tries to figure out what’s upsetting her. “I didn’t send him alone,” he says, something hurt in his voice like he thought Jack would think better of him than that. “I sent the Vagabond to watch his back.”

“You _what?!”_ Jack shrieks, throwing her laptop to the side, whipping around to face him fully. Geoff jolts and quickly sets the bottle down on the coffee table. “You sent the _Vagabond_ with him?” Jack yells, hands moving up because for _fuck’s sake_, she’s moments away from strangling Geoff.

Geoff scrambles to the far side of the couch, eyes blown wide, hands held up in surrender. “I—they’re okay!” he protests, “Gavin’s okay!”

Jack throws herself out of the couch, not trusting herself to _not_ throttle her best friend. She comes to a stop in front of the window, fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging painfully into her palms. “You’re telling me,” she hisses, “that you sent Gavin on a job to pacify a violent crew with the person he’s _terrified of?”_

Geoff sighs behind her, but doesn’t talk immediately, and Jack’s not sure if that’s better or worse than if he were to throw excuses at her. It’s horribly, _uncomfortably_ silent in the penthouse living room for a long, long moment.

“Tell me you at least _asked_ Gavin beforehand,” Jack begs, “_please_ tell me you didn’t send him in there thinking you didn’t care.”

Geoff’s silent again, and Jack wants to scream. She wants to scream and rage at Geoff, and she wants to run to Gavin and tell him it’s alright. She wishes she could stand between Gavin and the Vagabond at all times, because Gavin’s so horribly unnerved by the assassin’s presence.

“I didn’t give him a choice, you’re right,” Geoff mumbles, soft and unsure. “But—Jack, it wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t a scene. I told Gavin that the gang demanded to meet while I was out of town, told him that the biggest backup I could give him was the Vagabond. It was that or someone from the B-team, and look, I trust the Vagabond as a one-man-army. I told him I trusted the Vagabond to take care of him, and Gavin said that was good enough for him.” The words come slowly, quietly, and they fade away into the night.

Jack unclenches her fists slowly, little by little. “What happened at the docks?” She asks, just as quiet. “What went wrong?”

Geoff snorts. “They tried to give Gavin counterfeits. Nobody in the gang survived.”

That gets Jack’s attention. “The Vagabond killed them all?”

“Nope,” Geoff says, and something in his tone makes Jack turn around to look. He’s got this lopsided grin on his face. “_Gavin_ started it.”

That is…_incomprehensible_ to Jack. She stares at Geoff for a long moment, blinking in bewilderment, at a loss for words. Gavin? Initiating combat? Did the Vagabond tell Geoff this, or did Gavin?

Geoff knows her well enough by now to follow her train of thought. “I demanded to know who started it, even glared at the Vagabond as I said it, but he raised his hands like he was innocent. I looked at _Gavin_, and he—” Geoff laughs, delighted, “he looked sheepish! Got all embarrassed. Said it was his fault, he started it, the Vagabond just helped him clean up.”

Jack pinches the bridge of her nose. Gavin might lie to the world, to the crew even, but he’d never lie about something this big to _Geoff_, especially not just to cover for the Vagabond. If Gavin admitted to it, it’s likely a true story.

That doesn’t mean she has to like it.

“So…how much work do we have to do to clean this up and keep it quiet?” Jack asks, already dreading the list of favors she’ll have to call in, but Geoff shakes his head and grins again.

“Nothing as far as I can tell,” Geoff says, downright giddy, “I haven’t heard anything from the gang. Gavin sent them a note telling them to not fuck with us again, and Vagabond said their bodies were ‘disposed of’.”

“Disposed of?” Jack asks, eyebrow raised. “That’s…_concerning_.”

Geoff considers this. “Eh…you’re not _wrong_,” he says, “but they did such a good job. If they say the bodies are taken care of, I’m inclined to believe them.”

Jack sighs, walks back over to the couch and melts into it, exhausted. “I’m just wondering how _Gavin_ felt about the whole thing,” she says. “I’m—I know he’s good at what he does,” she assures Geoff, because she _does_ know. Gavin’s been their man in the shadows, holding the strings, and he’s never once failed them. She might have doubted the skinny kid they took in years ago, but she trusts Geoff, trusts his judgement when it comes down to it, and she hadn’t opposed him when he took Gavin into the crew and started teaching him the tricks of the trade. She’d watched Gavin grow strong and cunning and _brilliant_, and she trusts _him_ now, too. “I just—I have a hard time imagining him killing a gang and disposing of the bodies. I can’t see him being okay with getting his hands bloody.”

Geoff frowns and opens his mouth to respond, but the elevator doors open and noise erupts from behind them. Jack recognizes Gavin’s squeaky laughter immediately and relaxes. Whatever happened on his mission with the Vagabond obviously hadn’t upset him _too_ badly. She twists around to greet him, but any relief she’d felt is sucked away when she sees his appearance. Geoff sputters beside her, on the same page about this because—

_Because_—

Gavin is _covered_ in blood. His beloved designer shirt is soaked through in places, having dried by this point, blood fading to dark rust splotches. His jeans are splattered, too, although his bloodied sneakers blessedly dangle from his fingertips, avoiding spoiling the floor. He’s got blood in his hair, a little on his cheek, and he’s _grinning_ ear to ear and laughing at—

—at the _Vagabond_, who walks in beside him, also laughing, also splattered head to toe in blood.

The Vagabond looks down at the floor and winces. “Ah, shit, I _told_ you,” he says, mouth twisting into a grimace, “we’re tracking it everywhere.”

And Jack would normally berate them for getting blood all over their floors, _really,_ she would, but she’s far too stunned by the spectacle in front of her to pick her jaw up off the floor. 

Gavin looks back towards the elevator and snorts, squeaky laughter starting up all over again. “Aw, no! I thought taking our shoes off would be enough!”

The Vagabond gives him a dry look. “That kept the _blood_ off the floor,” he says pointedly.

Gavin _pouts_. He actually goddamn _pouts_ at the Vagabond, and this bizarre scenario is not getting any better.

The Vagabond reaches out and ruffles Gavin’s hair roughly, releasing a shower of dirt or dust to the floor. Gavin squawks and dances out of his reach. “Vagabond!” he protests, eyes wide, and _that’s it._

Jack’s up and moving before anyone registers it, including her. She gets in between Gavin and the Vagabond, plants her feet, juts out her chin. “Back the _fuck_ up,” she snarls.

“Whoa!” The Vagabond exclaims, surprised, and he raises his hands in surrender, his own shoes dangling by their laces from one hand. He backs up a good five steps. “Whoa, what did I do?”

“Don’t fucking _touch_ him,” Jack says, fingers tightening into fists.

She would have continued, but Gavin cuts her off. “Aw, Jack!” He says lightly, “Nah, ‘s alright! He was being a _monge_, that’s all!”

“What the fuck is a _monge_?” The Vagabond mutters, but Jack ignores him, turns to Gavin instead. He’s grinning sheepishly, and it looks _odd_ to see sweet little Gavin grinning like that while covered in blood and…dirt? Dust? Jack frowns. Gavin is covered in a fine layer of it; it’s stuck to the bloodied parts of his shirt. There’s heaps of it in his hair, despite the fact that the Vagabond ruffled it moments ago.

“We _may_ have gone a bit overboard on the glitter,” Gavin admits, having caught her stare. And Jack sees it better now; what she thought was dirt is really _glitter_, the low light of the living room not quite enough to make it sparkle. There’s a fine dusting of glitter on the floor from the elevator to where they stand, and a considerable coating of it on Gavin’s shirt, hair, and jeans.

The Vagabond huffs behind her. “_May have_ is an understatement,” he says, “next time let’s just do _two_ glitter packets.” Jack whips around and—sure enough, the Vagabond is covered in glitter, too. It’s stuck to the bloodied parts of his clothes, it’s in his hair, it’s even in his facepaint, making him look like some sort of deranged fairy.

“Or get a bloody glitter-bomb like I wanted to,” Gavin says, voice exasperated, “but _no_, we had to go and do things _tonight_, before I was ready!”

The Vagabond throws his hands up. “The target moved! Geoff said I had to deal with him tonight!”

“Wait, wait, _wait_,” Geoff says, finally joining them. “You took Gavin to kill the target I gave you?”

The Vagabond cocks his head. “You said to bring backup.”

Geoff blinks at him. “I—I meant _Michael_. Or, Ray, or someone from the B-team. I didn’t mean _Gavin_!”

The Vagabond frowns. “He asked to go!” He says, looking completely baffled about the situation.

Jack and Geoff both wordlessly look at Gavin. “I had glitter bomb plans for this murder!” Gavin says, throwing his arms out and sending a shower of glitter to the floor. “But _Vagabond_ made me rush the plans and we fucked it up!”

The Vagabond is quick to interject. “No, no, we didn’t fuck it up,” he promises. “We fucked up the _glitter_. Mostly by getting it _everywhere_ we didn’t intend to.”

“Dicks are really hard to draw with glitter,” Gavin mutters quietly.

The Vagabond sighs heavily, and Jack gets the distinct impression that this is an argument they’ve had before. “That’s why I said to draw a dick in _blood_, first, then put the glitter on _that_, and blow the excess glitter away.”

“Why not just draw it in glitter and then make him bleed on it?!” Gavin screeches, “It’d work perfectly well!”

“But it _didn’t!_” The Vagabond yells back, “it didn’t work and look at what I get for listening to you!”

Gavin sniffs in disdain. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of the glitter first,” he says, crossing his arms.

The Vagabond rolls his eyes. He wordlessly reaches into his pocket, fumbles something, and then chucks it at Gavin. It must have been the remaining glitter packet; it explodes into a shower of glitter, puffing across Gavin’s face and chest, shimmering as it falls to the floor.

“_Vagabond!_” Gavin shrieks.

The Vagabond _grins_, wide and delighted. “It was a brilliant idea,” he acquiesces, something Jack’s never seen him do before. “It was brilliant, it was fun, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.” Jack gapes, stunned at the admission, but the Vagabond’s grin turns sharklike. “In fact, your idea was so brilliant, I can’t _possibly_ take credit for it,” he says, “so it’s _your_ responsibility to clean my car and my clothes of all the glitter that I didn’t think of,” he finishes, and yep, there it is, _there’s_ the real Vagabond. He smiles winningly at them and divests himself of his jacket, glitter twinkling down to the floor around him. He tosses it to Gavin, who fumbles it, and then he waves jauntily at Jack and Geoff. “Night!” And he _leaves_, fucking turns on his heel and heads downstairs to clean up.

“Fuck,” Gavin mutters, “see if I share my creative murder plans with _you_ again.”

Jack throws her hands up in exasperation and storms back to the couch to update her report.

_Crew by the docks wiped out by Gavin and Vagabond; methods unknown; bodies “disposed of.” Don’t ask. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you know why I named this Glitter and Gold
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi on tumblr: bdbriggs.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this week. Next week's chapter will be considerably longer to make up for it.

Gavin’s got a new friend.

Someone might mistake the errant thought for jealousy if it were spoken aloud, so Michael purses his lips and stays silent. It isn’t jealousy he feels when he watches Gavin and the Vagabond talk and laugh together in the penthouse, or stand close together on a mission, or shriek about moronic hypotheticals. It isn’t jealousy; Gavin will always be his boi, his best friend, regardless of their spats and dumb arguments. Gavin’s pretty capable of looking after himself, too. He can make friends without Michael’s permission or whatever.

No, the only things Michael feels are amusement and slight bewilderment at the strange friendship developing before him.

Gavin has been terrified of the Vagabond since day one. Michael and Ray did their best to stick close to Gavin whenever the Vagabond was around, especially in the beginning. They sat between him and the Vagabond in the penthouse. They kept Gavin covered during missions so the Vagabond didn’t have any excuse to come near. They made sure the two were never left alone together. The Vagabond certainly picked up on this—they weren’t exactly subtle—and he’d left Gavin alone as much as he could.

So this? Watching Gavin make a beeline towards the Vagabond as soon as the merc gets out of the elevator? Yeah. It’s weird.

“Vagabond!” Gavin calls, “I have an idea!” And if _that’s_ not terrifying, Michael doesn’t know what is. Watching them huddle together on the far corner of the couch, bent over Gavin’s phone and making notes, is even more terrifying. It’s a shame Ray left the crew before he could witness the scene, he thinks, partly because the sniper would get a kick out of it and partly because Michael itches to have backup in the face of the potential chaos unfolding before him.

The penthouse is no longer safe, not with those two joining forces, he thinks drily. He bails with a muttered excuse and heads out for a drive to clear his head. He drives his Adder out to the hills past Vinewood, takes the slow, meandering path through the mansions on the way there. It’s a peaceful night in Los Santos; the Fakes haven’t caused much in the way of chaos since Ray left. They’re all going a little stir crazy; hence the crazy planning between Gavin and Vagabond. Geoff hasn’t exactly _grounded_ them, but he called off all heists for the foreseeable future while they adjust to Ray’s absence.

Michael parks on a hill past the Vinewood sign, just a little west of the prison, and looks out at Sandy Shores. The Senora Desert is a shithole, but under the dark mask of night it looks almost pretty with the twinkling lights shining on the lake. The air of the desert is colder than the ocean breeze of the city, so Michael dons his jacket when he leaves the car. He doesn’t go far; he leans against the hood of his car and just breathes and enjoys the solitude for a long while. It’s a welcome change from sitting in the penthouse twiddling his thumbs.

It’s close to midnight when he hears a plane. It immediately has his attention; the little airport by the lake is barely operational during the day, never mind at _night_. Whatever plane is about to fly in is probably related to some not-so-legal activities. A thrum of excitement pulses through him, and he has to will himself to breathe as he dashes for the trunk and fumbles for his sniper rifle with shaky fingers. He runs full-speed to a hill further west; he doesn’t want to be caught next to his shiny chrome car, and the hills east of him are too close to the prison for his comfort. He dives into the low brush, settling on his stomach, and fixes his scope towards the runway.

The roar grows deafening. The plane swoops right over the Vinewood sign, _low_, and it sounds fucking _huge_. Michael planned on waiting for the plane to land to raise his head, but at the noise overhead he chances a look up.

And—for _fuck’s sake_.

A gold titan soars over him, so low he feels the rumbling in his chest. The plane is dangerously, _stupidly_ low, and Michael’s jaw drops at the sight. He fights the urge to duck his head as it passes him. And look, titans are big and expensive. A _gold-painted titan_ is borderline obscene. It’s ridiculous. Moronic. The plane does a fucking barrel roll as it flies over the desert basin, releasing gold flares in a bright halo as it rolls. Michael’s never seen such a ridiculous display of opulence and idiocy in his _life_.

The titan levels out and banks slowly, turning over the lake to avoid both the prison and the military base. Michael waits patiently for it to circle around and land on the airstrip. The landing is surprisingly gentle, considering the low elevation flying and barrel roll minutes before. The behemoth rolls to a stop, finally, and the ramp lowers. Michael ducks to watch it through his scope.

And whatever Michael was expecting, the _Vagabond_ running out full speed and collapsing to his hands and knees in the middle of the runway was _not it_.

He sincerely wishes they were on comms right now. The titan’s engines cut off and Gavin bounds down the ramp, arms curled around his ribs, clearly laughing his head off. Michael isn’t at the best angle to see the Vagabond, but he certainly sees the middle finger he raises in Gavin’s direction. Gavin falls on his ass, still laughing, and Michael doesn’t need comms to know he’s squeaking.

A smile stretches his lips, unbidden. Gavin’s been sullen and sad since Ray left the crew. It’s good to see him smiling and laughing again, regardless of the context. If splurging on a golden plane and taking it out for a joyride brings such a wide smile to his face, Michael won’t begrudge him. Besides, it’s good to see the Vagabond getting in on the shenanigans. Vagabond’s always been so serious around the crew; it’s just nice to see him goofing off. Although to be fair, he’s relaxed considerably since striking up a friendship with Geoff and officially joining the crew. He’d even driven all three lads around, once, taking them out for a joyride in the middle of the damn night. He still has miles to go before reaching the same level of comfort the rest of the crew has with each other, but he’s making progress.

It’s funny how the most terrifying and menacing person in all of Los Santos has changed so much in the span of a few years, Michael thinks. He used to just about shit his pants every time the Fakes crossed into the Vagabond’s territory, or fucked with his allies, worried that a single wrong move could end them all. But now, watching him gesture agitatedly from his spot on the ground, Michael thinks the Vagabond might just be the biggest softie of them all.

The plane wasn’t Gavin’s doing, not entirely. Someone goaded him into getting it, and Michael knows the Vagabond isn’t malicious enough to have done it to rip Gavin off. No, the purpose here is obvious; it’s to make Gavin smile again. And it’s working.

Here’s the thing: the Vagabond is _smart_. Eerily so. He observes everything casually enough that it’s easy to miss the cogs and gears turning in his head. Before anyone notices, the Vagabond has a plan of action with little to no effort because that’s just how his brain _works_. It’s amazing to watch. It’s why he and Geoff work so well together, bouncing ideas off each other until they have a stunning plan crafted. There’s no way Vagabond missed the melancholy that settled over the crew, especially Gavin, when Ray left. Michael suspects he’s also behind the plans on the whiteboard to steal some vehicles from someone in Grapeseed in a couple of months. The words _monster truck_ got thrown around in a meeting the other day, Vagabond looking suspiciously innocent, and _no one_ missed the spark of interest from the crew at the mention.

Anyways. Vagabond wouldn’t just fall on his face and then sit there complaining and gesturing wildly, clearly yelling about something, for several minutes on the cold runway for the fun of it. He’s going along with something. _Something_ being making Gavin smile and laugh, and it’s working better than anything else so far. Gavin is still on his ass, one hand curled around his ribs, the other jammed across his mouth. He’s rocking back and forth slightly with the force of his laughter.

Finally, Vagabond sits up and _glares_ at Gavin, who twitches and laughs harder. Michael grins when Gavin wipes his eyes, clearly having laughed to the point of tears. Vagabond heaves a sigh and stands, offering Gavin a hand up. He points to the plane and says something to which Gavin shakes his head. Vagabond pulls his phone out and steps away to make a call, and Gavin hunches over slightly with his hands gripping his elbows. It’s probably just to ward off the chill of the desert, but it makes him look sad and defeated. Michael purses his lips.

He heaves a sigh of his own and stands, brushing grass and dirt from his jeans and shirt. He walks quickly back to his car and puts the sniper away before leaning on the hood again and fishing his phone from his back pocket. He calls Gavin and crosses his arm over his chest, tucking his hand under the arm holding the phone, looking for all the world like a displeased parent.

Gavin picks up on the third ring. “Boi?” He asks, “you alright?”

Michael hums. “I went out for a drive to clear my head,” he says, keeping his voice light. “Went out to the hills just past Vinewood. I was looking out over Sandy Shores.” He pauses, then, waits for that statement to sink in before continuing, “You’ll never guess what I saw.”

Gavin coughs. _Busted_, Michael thinks, smirking. He hears Vagabond say something in the background, probably overhearing the conversation and realizing how fucked they are.

“What did you see?” Gavin asks, belatedly, as if holding onto the tiniest thread of hope that Michael wasn’t looking their way.

Michael grins. “The most disgusting display of opulence I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says drily, “a gold fucking titan doing a barrel roll over my fucking head.”

Silence. Sweet, beautiful silence that is music to Michael’s ears. It’s somehow the funniest fucking thing Michael’s ever heard. After a few beats he hears a laugh somewhere in the background, confirming that the Vagabond’s listening in.

“You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?” Michael says sweetly, not bothering to keep the sharklike grin out of his voice. Gavin sighs, his breath momentarily blowing out the call. Michael just laughs, cackling and probably sounding like a hyena.

“It was Ryan’s fault!” Gavin protests, as though that makes it any better.

Michael calms his laughter long enough to gasp in a breath and ask, “Who the fuck is _Ryan?”_

And _man_. If Michael thought the silence before was the funniest thing he’d ever heard? Oh, he was so, _so_ wrong. This silence turns out to be infinitely funnier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Banach_Tarski <3

Geoff corners Ryan on a Friday night. Jack had taken Michael and Gavin out for drinks to celebrate a successful job a few hours earlier. Ryan said he was too tired to go with, and the time alone is exactly what Geoff needs in order to talk with him, so he stayed behind as well.

See, Ryan’s got a new friend.

And normally Geoff would all but shove Ryan in the direction of making friends and relaxing around his crewmates, but it’s _Gavin_. Gavin is terrified of the Vagabond. Gavin refuses to sit on the same _couch_ as Ryan, never mind suddenly become his friend and go on jobs together.

It’s weird, and it’s concerning, although Geoff would be content to live and let live. He’s mostly doing this on Jack’s behalf. If he doesn’t find a way to pacify her momma-bear tendencies, things are going to get wildly out of hand very quickly.

He finds Ryan on the roof, diet eCola resting on the low cement wall that protects people from plummeting to their deaths. He’s still in the Vagabond getup, sans mask, and it looks like he’s made an attempt to wipe off the bulk of the facepaint. He’s still got smudges of it here and there, especially the black around his eyes, but he looks mostly human for once. He looks up and offers a little half-smile to Geoff when he approaches.

Geoff joins him in leaning on the low wall, resting his forearms along the top. “So I heard you’ve got a new friend,” he says without preamble. He doesn’t want to aggravate Ryan’s anxiety by drawing this out.

Ryan hums. “Looks that way,” he agrees. He gives Geoff a considering look. “Am I out of line?”

Apparently Ryan’s worries about getting tossed out of the crew haven’t fully left him. “That’s what I’m here to ask you,” Geoff says. “Jack’s going full momma-bear and I don’t want her or you to have any further issues.” Ryan purses his lips and looks away. “I’m not upset with you,” Geoff says firmly, because that’s important for Ryan to understand. “I just want to hear your take on things. Gavin is reluctant to share details at the best of times.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he’s not the best at explaining his thoughts on things,” he agrees. “For one thing, I’m being very careful. For another, he initiates most of our conversations, jumpstarts almost all of our plans. Very little of this is my doing.” He chuckles, then, looking a tad sheepish. “If anything, I’m just enabling him at this point.”

“After seeing the gold Titan, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Geoff mutters. Ryan bursts out laughing, loud and bright, tapering off into little giggles. His laugh is a glorious sound, at least when he’s not doing the creepy Vagabond-laugh. “How did you two get close, anyways?” Geoff asks, because sue him, he’s curious. Their bizarre little friendship seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. 

Once Ryan’s giggles subside, he shrugs, picking up his diet coke and taking a swig. Stalling. “Do you want the long version and short version?” He asks.

Geoff almost says the short version, just to save Ryan from telling the long version, but he hesitates. Ryan’s giving _him_ the choice; he wouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t okay to share the long story. “Long version,” Geoff says lightly, “I’ve got all night.”

It’s the right thing to say. Ryan smiles. “One that first job you gave us,” he says, “he looked anxious when he first came downstairs. I fumbled my keys, though, made an awful racket with the Zentorno’s horn before we left. He completely relaxed and was fine afterwards.”

“Ryan fumbles something,” Geoff says drily, “who would have guessed?”

It earns him a well-deserved elbow to the ribs, Ryan leaning closer to deliver the blow. He doesn’t leave afterwards, just hunches over the wall again with his shoulder brushing Geoff’s. “In the deal, he went full psychopath on me,” Ryan continues, “just started listing all these gruesome ways I could kill the gang. I had a hard time keeping my eyes from bulging out of my head,” he grins, “but it worked. The gang just about pissed their pants. By the time Gavin was done, they’d lowered their guns. We took them all out at once without getting shot at a single time. And when we were done, _he_ suggested the body disposal.” Ryan gives him a sidelong glance. “Do you want to know?”

“Do I?” Geoff asks, because if _the Vagabond_ is withholding body-disposal information, it may well be gruesome enough that Geoff doesn’t want to know.

Ryan shrugs. “We took them in a dingy out into open ocean, tied cinderblocks to them, and tossed ‘em overboard. Saved the live ones for last.”

“Jesus _Christ_,” Geoff says, a little appalled. _“Gavin_ suggested this?”

“He did,” Ryan nods, “again, I just enabled him.” He gives Geoff a lopsided grin, “Though I’m always up for creative murder.”

And there’s nothing surprising _there_, at least. “So you and Gavin bonded over ‘creative murder,’” he sums up.

“Well,” Ryan says, shaking his head, “no, I guess I missed the point. I…” he pauses, licking his lips. “I guess I realized how much of a mask the Golden Boy is. It got me thinking that if I had met the Golden Boy before I met Gavin, _I_ probably would have been wary of _him_.”

“That’s a fair point,” Geoff agrees. Gavin is terrifying in his own right, especially when he manipulates negotiations like a puppeteer. He’s got Los Santos in the palm of his hand, ready for the Fakes to take. Gavin is cunning and brilliant on and off the field. But Ryan had met _Gavin_ first, the goofy prick instead of the experienced criminal. It’s a mistake Geoff aims to rectify with any further recruits to the Fakes. If anyone else joins their ranks, he’ll make efforts to introduce them to the work personas they don, first. Recruits can meet the people behind the masks later, if they stick around long enough.

Ryan hums, bringing Geoff back to the present. “I realized that so far, Gavin had only met the _Vagabond_. He relaxed so much when I fumbled the keys…” Ryan trails off and shrugs. “I dunno. I just thought that if Gavin could meet _Ryan_ instead of the Vagabond, he might not be so afraid of me.”

It makes sense, Geoff thinks. The distinction between _Ryan_ and _the Vagabond_ is an important one to the merc. There’s just one little hole in Ryan’s explanation. “So how did this spiral into a string of ‘creative’ murder sprees?” Geoff asks, lips turning up into a little grin.

Ryan throws his hands up. “The glitter plans were _not_ my idea!” He protests immediately. “He started mentioning all these crazy plans for highly creative murders, Geoff! I couldn’t help myself!”

Geoff bursts out laughing. “You know, most people have a soft spot for _food_ or, I dunno, puns, or dogs. Not _murder_!”

“It was his idea!” Ryan protests again. “Though I realize it may have been an attempt to ‘speak my language’ or something similar, _he _started it. I just enabled it.” He grins, and it’s clear that he enjoys enabling Gavin’s wild plans.

It’s not quite the quality answer Geoff was looking for, but it’s pretty spot-on for both Ryan and Gavin’s personalities. Accidently bonding over a shared love of creative murder? Geoff has no trouble believing it. And Ryan’s _right_. The Vagabond and the Golden Boy are both masks, very similar in their purpose for all their differences on the surface.

Not that it’s an answer Jack will appreciate. “So what do I tell Jack?” Geoff asks, half joking.

“That Gavin mentioned he was hungry after the job, so I got drive-thru burgers and shakes,” Ryan replies without missing a beat.

Geoff bursts out laughing all over again. “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He exclaims.

“You said you wanted the long version!” Ryan says, also laughing. “I gave you _exactly_ what you wanted!”

He’s not wrong.

Geoff grins and nudges him in the ribs with his elbow in retaliation. They spend a comfortable evening on the roof, watching the city grow dark beneath them and chatting amicably. If you had told Geoff a year ago that he’d be avoiding bars on a Friday night, instead hanging out with an unmasked Vagabond, he would have laughed in your face. Honestly, the Vagabond isn’t someone he ever would have envisioned having as a friend.

It’s good, he thinks, watching Ryan look out over their city. He’s calmed considerably since joining the Fakes. He gets angry much less, and if he does get angry it’s usually jokingly or directed somewhere else, like at the LSPD. Geoff hasn’t seen the Vagabond try desperately to prove his worth in several months. Ryan has taken great strides to let his guard down and trust the crew; taking his mask off, telling them his real name, taking his _facepaint_ off. The last one is new; Geoff has seen Ryan without his facepaint before, in the shitty safehouse in the desert, but the rest of the crew hasn’t. They’ll be in for a surprise when they get home.

Geoff is infinitely proud of Ryan for putting in so much effort to getting along with the crew. Even the first day they’d met, Ryan had backed off when he realized Gavin was afraid of him. He brought it up to Geoff, later, hoping they could find a way to keep the Vagabond and the Golden Boy away from each other off the field. And Ryan had kept his distance from Jack, too, when he realized she didn’t trust him for shit. Now, though? He’s gotten so much _better_. It’s enough to make Geoff’s chest swell.

He bids Ryan goodnight when a yawn threatens to crack his jaw, patting him on the shoulder and heading downstairs with a cheerful goodnight. Now all he has to do is tell Jack.

* * *

Telling Jack goes smoother than Geoff would have thought.

“They bonded over shitty drive-thru burgers,” Geoff deadpans.

Jack snorts.

“I’m serious!” Geoff grins. Jack spent the entirety of the morning in bed, pillows over her face, curtains drawn, trying and failing to ward off the hangover. It’s already well into the afternoon, and Jack is only just regaining some sense of humor, her good mood remembering how to function. “The long version is that Ryan realized the Golden Boy is just as much of a mask as the Vagabond is. He thought that if Gavin could meet Ryan, instead of the Vagabond, maybe he wouldn’t be so scared of him.”

Jack hums and shifts her legs up onto the couch, over Geoff’s lap, and leans her back against the armrest. Geoff rests his forearms on her shins. “I suppose that makes sense,” Jack says slowly, “I just never thought of it that way.”

“I don’t think _anyone_ in the crew ever compared the two,” Geoff chuckles, “we were all too busy looking at the contrasts.”

Jack nods and fishes the TV remote out from between the couch cushions. “I’m still not sure I like it,” she says, “but I trust Gavin. He can make friends on his own.”

Geoff considers this. “Gavin’s an idiot,” he says fondly, “but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t hang out with Ryan if he thought he was in danger.” He hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is aggravate Jack, but there’s something bugging him. “I think we both need to trust _Ryan_, though,” he continues carefully. “I know he’s the big bad Vagabond, but he’s part of our crew, now. He’s trying hard to prove that he can be trustworthy. Let him make friends with his crewmates. He needs it.”

Jack purses her lips and silently browses Netflix. Just when Geoff thinks she won’t reply at all, she clears her throat. “Does the Vagabond still do missions with other crews?” She asks.

“No,” Geoff shakes his head. “He hasn’t since before I offered him a place in the crew. He’s been ours for a long while now.”

“I don’t like him,” Jack says softly. “He’s violent and angry, he makes a lot of messes for the B-Team to clean up, and he’s a fucking sociopath.”

There’s so much wrong with that statement, Geoff doesn’t even know where to begin. He has one angle he can play, though. “You’re talking about the Vagabond?” He asks.

Jack slants him a suspicious look, clearly catching onto the fact that he’s up to something. “I get that he’s useful to the crew,” she says, “but I’m not going to be buddy-buddy with him. And I’m not going to like my crewmates hanging out with him, either.”

“’Kay,” Geoff says, “I understand you, there. But I’m not talking about the _Vagabond_. I’m talking about _Ryan_.”

Jack turns to look at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the fuck are you talking about?” She hisses.

“I’m talking about the guy who fumbled his words so badly he fucked up a heist,” Geoff says. “I’m talking about the guy who burst out laughing on comms when Gavin fucked something up and started squawking. I’m talking about the guy who has a sweet spot for diet eCola, who drove the lads around in the middle of the goddamn night because Ray couldn’t sleep and wanted company, who goaded Gavin into getting a gold fucking plane just to see him smile again.”

Jack’s visibly annoyed with him; her lips are set in a thin line, her brows furrowed dangerously, but Geoff is on a roll. “I’m talking about the guy who made plans specifically to keep the Vagabond and the Golden Boy away from each other in the field _his second time meeting me_. I’m talking about the guy who has been so, so careful to avoid you and Gavin because he _knows_ he makes you both uncomfortable. I’m talking about the guy who took his mask off around us, who told us his _real fucking name_, who is starting to go around without his facepaint.” Geoff squeezes Jack’s shins. “I’m talking about Ryan. He’s making a huge effort. The least you could do is throw him a bone.”

“We’re also talking about _Gavin_,” Jack says, but it sounds a little too desperate to come off firm. She’s losing ground.

“And we just confirmed that we trust Gavin,” Geoff says, “several times over.”

Jack goes silent again. They sit there tensely for a long time, Jack no longer even pretending to scroll through Netflix.

“Did you know that Ryan has anxiety?” Geoff asks quietly.

Jack turns to look at him, but doesn’t say anything.

“You can see it best before heists or jobs,” Geoff continues, “he just starts fidgeting. Sometimes he’ll shake, almost like he’s shivering, but he’ll do it even in hundred-degree weather. He’s just anxious. It disappears as soon as the heist starts, but you can sure as hell see it before, if you look for it. If he’s driving, his hands will shake on the steering wheel unless he gets it in a death-grip.”

Jack frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?” She asks.

“I asked him about his anxiety a few weeks ago,” Geoff says, “just so I could recognize the signs and be able to do something about it if necessary. That night you thought he killed someone? When he almost fell on his ass trying to get into the Zentorno?” Geoff waits for Jack to nod before continuing, “You saw him in the middle of an anxiety attack.” Jack’s brows fly up. “I came up and startled him, I told you that much. I didn’t fully understand when it happened, either, so I couldn’t explain this to you at the time. He probably couldn’t talk even if he’d wanted to, which is why he didn’t answer you. His throat closes up and he almost can’t breathe. He gets the shakes.”

Jack shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“I’m telling you this because he starts shaking when you enter the room, now,” Geoff says. “The last few interactions you’ve had with him have been threatening. His anxiety goes through the fucking roof whenever you walk in. The Vagabond isn’t afraid of much, but Ryan is afraid of _you_.” Jack looks stunned by the revelation. “Gavin is no longer afraid of the Vagabond. Those two are good, now. It’s no longer a concern. But you and Ryan?” Geoff frowns. “You two concern me. Again, Ryan’s putting in a hell of a lot of effort. I think you need to realize that.”

“I didn’t know,” Jack says softly. They go quiet again, but it’s less tense this time. Geoff sits back and lets her think. “I don’t know what I should do,” Jack says after a few minutes of silence. “I don’t trust him. I realize that’s an issue, but I don’t know how I want to fix it, or _if_ I want to fix it.”

Geoff shrugs. “I can’t tell you how to approach it,” he says. “But I can tell you a bit about his ticks, about what signs to look for that you’re freaking him out. I can keep reminding you to trust Gavin, because the twerp knows what he’s getting himself into.”

Jack chuckles. “You think they’ll be okay?”

“I know they will,” Geoff says, lips twitching upwards. “Ryan’s like a fucking golden retriever. All Gavin has to do is say ‘_murder? You wanna go murder?’_ and Ryan’ll bounce up and down cheering ‘_Murder? Murder!!’_ like a goddamn overexcited dog.”

Jack snorts out a loud laugh, curling in on herself and losing it. Geoff grins. He’s won.

“I’m serious!” He says, laughing, “Gavin’s a master fucking manipulator. He knows how to get what he wants out of a relationship, and so far he’s mostly catering to Ryan’s interests. If Gavin wasn’t enjoying it, he wouldn’t be doing it.”

Jack’s still laughing, whooping and giggling. “Fucking _golden retriever_,” she gasps, “holy _shit_, that’s funny.”

“Am I _wrong?_” Geoff demands.

“No,” Jack shakes her head, still laughing, “It’s pretty fucking accurate. Although, with the amount of destruction he causes, maybe he’s more like a pit bull.”

Geoff snorts. “I’m not sure I like that comparison,” he admits, “but a pit bull is still a dog. My point stands.”

The elevator doors open behind them, loud voices spilling out. “Geoff!” Gavin singsongs, “We’re back!”

Geoff checks his watch. Ryan has a job tonight and is supposed to be back thirty minutes from now. Apparently he’d taken Gavin with him again. The only question is whether them being thirty minutes early is a sign that the job went spectacularly well or if it went straight to hell. “Welcome back?” He asks, concern leaking into his voice.

Ryan trudges up to the couch, Vagabond getup splattered in blood, as usual. At least there’s no glitter this time, Geoff thinks absently. He raises the mask as he gets close, and he’s grinning widely. “Here ya go!” He says cheerfully, and dumps a bloody duffel bag into Geoff’s arms. Jack wordlessly pulls her legs back to avoid getting bloodied.

“Uhhh,” Geoff blinks at the bag in his arms, “What, uh, what’s this?”

“Open it!” Ryan says. The man is _entirely_ too cheerful for having handed his boss a blood-splattered bag. Geoff glances at Gavin, who is thankfully _not_ covered in blood, but also grinning.

Geoff sets the bag down on his lap gingerly. “I’m not sure I like this,” he says, but he’d just given a speech to Jack on trusting Ryan. He’s not gonna fuck this up now, so he zips open the bag and peers inside.

And…well, fuck. The bag is stuffed full of bills, with other odds and ends scattered about. There’s watches, finely cut gems, jewel necklaces, carved bracelets, rings, all manner of pretty and expensive things inside. Geoff’s no appraiser, but the contents of the bag have to be worth hundreds of thousands, if not _millions_.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently.

Ryan leans over and fishes through it for a moment. He pulls out a green stone bracelet, probably jade, with little golden flowers set in between the stones. Most of the jewelry in the bag is a little gaudy for Geoff’s taste, but the bracelet is small and pretty. Ryan hands it out to Jack. “It’ll match your shirt,” he says cheerfully.

Jack blinks up at Ryan, clearly surprised by the gesture. And Geoff just holds still as best he can, poker face enabled. Ryan’s face hasn’t changed, his eyes wide and bright, a little smile on his face, but Geoff can see his hand shaking. Jack looks back down at the bracelet, and Geoff can see it in her eyes when she notices it, too.

“Thank you,” Jack says. She takes the bracelet from him and fastens it around her wrist. “It does match my heist shirt. If I wear it on the next heist, will your robbery be discovered?”

“Nah,” Gavin says, “It’s not a museum piece or anything like that. Ryan’s target apparently hoarded jewelry.”

Ryan grins at Geoff. “We took the liberty of cleaning up her mansion for her,” he says, sounding for all the world like the cat who caught the canary. “Gavin took all the gold jewelry he wanted from that already. Everything in there is yours.”

Geoff sifts through the watches, as well as a few sets of cufflinks he finds at the bottom. Jack leans over and sifts through the bag, too. It’s not often that they come across a score this _pretty_, Geoff thinks.

“Imma go clean up,” Ryan mutters, “sorry about the blood on the bag.”

Something occurs to Geoff, then, something he should have thought about earlier. “Did you grab anything?” He asks.

Ryan freezes a few steps away. “Uh, no,” he says, sounding distinctly uncomfortable, “I—jewelry’s not really my thing,” he says.

Jack hums. “Did you realize there’s a knife in here?” She asks, still hunched over the bag and sifting through it.

Ryan glances between her and Geoff. “No?” He says, and Geoff doesn’t linger on whether or not he’s lying. He zeroes in on the way Ryan stuffs his hands into his pockets, the poor guy trying to cover up how much he’s shaking. 

Jack straightens, finally, and hands out a folded knife to him. Ryan hesitates, but he walks back over and takes it from her, turning it this way and that in shaky hands. It’s a pretty thing; Geoff isn’t sure what the hell it’s made out of, but it’s multicolored in a way that looks rainbow, shimmering prettily when it catches the light.

“Thanks,” Ryan manages, still sounding hesitant.

Jack smiles at him. “Thanks for the bracelet,” she says. “You’re one of the Fakes now. You can take whatever the hell you want from scores like this.” She glances at Gavin. “Unless it’s gold. Then _this_ little magpie will sneak it off of you no matter _how_ much you like it.”

“That was _one time_,” Gavin protests, throwing his hands up and stomping back towards the elevator, “and I gave it back!”

Ryan chuckles and follows him, still turning the knife over and over in his hands. Geoff grins as they descend together, Gavin complaining loudly.

“You have blood all over your clothes,” Jack says drily, “you need to change so I can put my feet back.”

Geoff snorts. Apparently they’re going to ignore the exchange that just took place. Whatever; if Jack doesn’t want to mention it, Geoff will leave it alone. “You know,” he says, “you were wrong about Ryan.” He grins. “He really is a _golden_ retriever.”

Jack smacks him _hard_ on the shoulder, and it’s well deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make the distinction that in the first chapter of The Usual, Ryan is ALL ABOUT MONEY. He's curious, sure, but the Fakes are paying him damn well to do his job. If there wasn't good pay involved, he never would have taken jobs with the Fakes. In the second chapter of The Usual, he offers Geoff a discount in hopes he'll get to stick around. Now, though? He just passed up hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of loot because he wanted to give Geoff and Jack a gift (and Gavin, too. Holy shit, Gavin took so many gold watches and cufflinks and necklaces). Not only is he leaving the Vagabond persona behind more often, the Vagabond himself is changing to fit in better with the Fakes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point it should be obvious, but I would like to point out that the events in this fic take place throughout the rest of the series. The chapters are in chronological order, but there may be large gaps of time between them, filled in by the events of the other two fics in the series.

Edit: the lovely jemmathepurple drew a scene from this chapter!!! [Go check it out!](https://jemmathepurple.tumblr.com/post/611657132731940864/for-badassbriggs-and-their-wonderful-story) =D

The Fakes are ridiculous.

Jeremy grins at the thought. The Fakes are ridiculous and he loves them with all his little heart. He never, ever wants to leave.

The thing about the Fakes is that even the best laid plans often go awry—and for the love of all that is holy, the Fakes do _not_ have the best laid plans. A solid seventy percent of the time, their plans come down to _winging it_ or _bailing_ or _for the love of god RUN. _

It’s the most fun Jeremy’s had in ages.

They have fallback plans, though. For every situation, there’s a fallback plan. There’s always a way out, a way to get to safety, and Jeremy appreciates the careful thought put into that, at least. Especially since today’s heist went to shit in record time; today’s fallback plan is—

“Team Nice Dynamite,” Geoff yells over comms, “run distraction in Michael’s car! The cops are _hot_ for that chrome piece of shit.”

Jeremy ignores the ensuing argument over whether or not Michael’s Adder is a piece of shit. He shakes his head and grins, tucking himself into an alley to get away from the cops. That’s another thing with the Fakes, he thinks. The goddamn _teams_.

Team Nice Dynamite is, perhaps, the most obvious team. Michael and Gavin, firecracker and golden boy. To be honest, Jeremy thought Michael acted as Gavin’s bodyguard in the field until recently. Gavin usually stays behind on comms to watch the cameras, but lately he’s been joining in the action more. And while he’s not a killing machine like Ryan and Michael, Gavin sure as hell brings a chaos all his own. In addition, he’s quick thinking and a steady shot, things Jeremy appreciates immensely.

Team OG is another obvious one. Geoff and Jack started the Fakes together, and their friendship seems as old as time to the rest of the crew. Those two know each other well enough to predict each other’s moves and actions. They’re not _smooth_, not by any means, but Jeremy trusts them both with his life. Geoff’s mostly focused on keeping everyone on track, Jack with getting everyone out safely. They complement each other nicely.

Team Lads and Team Gents are another two that Jeremy is used to seeing on the field. It’s natural to fall into two teams of three, and it’s just how most missions go.

A loud crash sounds through the comms, drowning out whatever Michael was in the middle of yelling at Geoff. Jeremy pauses for a beat, waiting it out.

“Well it’s a piece of shit _now_, Geoff,” Michael grumbles, his voice sounding scratchy and distant.

Geoff groans loudly. “You crashed your car, didn’t you,” he says, no question in his voice.

“Technically the cops crashed into _him_,” Gavin amends, voice coming out considerably clearer than Michael’s. “He’s a little scuffed up, and his comm’s broke. I’m gonna steal him a car to get back to the penthouse with.” A burst of gunfire sounds over the comms. “I can stay behind if someone wants to pick me up,” Gavin continues, “I’m at the bridge.”

Jeremy takes stock of his own situation. He’s hiding in an alley between two dumpsters, eyeing a shitty car on the other side of the alley from him in case the cops decide to look his way. He’s _really_ not in a great place.

“How badly do you need a ride?” Jeremy mutters quietly into his earpiece.

“I got him,” Ryan says immediately after, “I hope you have a parachute, Gav, ‘cause I’m underneath you.”

Gavin replies affirmative. Geoff’s voice picks up again, “I need you two to run distraction. Jack and I are pinned down. Jeremy, status?”

“I’m not exactly pinned,” Jeremy says, “but I’m sure as hell not moving anytime soon. Ordering one distraction over by the strip club, please, preferably moving _away_ from the alleys.”

Ryan laughs. “One distraction, coming in. Gavin, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Gavin makes this whispery-gaspy noise and then the comms go worryingly silent.

And that’s one team that Jeremy had not been _at all_ prepared for: Team Love ‘n Stuff. Ryan and Gavin as a team just never occurred to Jeremy. To be fair, Ryan most often teams up with the other two gents or with _him_, as Team Battle Buddies. But it just seems like Ryan and Gavin would _not_ work as a team.

They tend to argue whenever they’re in a room together, for one. Gavin likes pushing people’s buttons, and Ryan’s buttons are all too easy to push. Jeremy would know—he’d poked and prodded a hell of a lot back in the Agency. For another, Ryan prefers the kill-first-ask-questions-later approach, whereas Gavin’s style is so much more careful and quiet. Where Ryan likes to use the Vagabond persona to wreak havoc, Gavin uses the Golden Boy persona to get information and manipulate people into doing what he wants. Both are absolutely useful to the crew, but in entirely different contexts.

Pairing them together in the field just seems like asking for trouble.

“Do you want in on this, Jeremy?” Gavin asks.

Jeremy frowns. “That depends on what _this_ is,” he says warily.

“Pick him up, Ryan!” Gavin cheers, like Jeremy’s answer was an unconditional yes.

Ryan responds with a cheerful little, “O-kay!”

Fucking hell.

Jeremy waits for two minutes of blessed silence before the world gets _loud_ all at once. An explosion rocks the corner of the street to his left, by the entrance of the alley. Moments later, a Phantom Wedge comes barreling into the alleyway.

“Get in, get in, get in!” Ryan chants, slowing down only barely as he spots Jeremy.

Jeremy launches out from behind the dumpsters and clambers onto the back, just in time before Ryan speeds up again. “What are we doing?!” Jeremy yells as they screech out of the other side of the alley, tipping over onto three wheels briefly as they turn the corner.

“Shoot them, please!” Ryan yelps at the same time Gavin yells, “being distracting!”

So Jeremy gets his gun out and starts shooting at cops as they barrel through the streets of Los Santos. Ryan’s driving leaves much to be desired, as usual, so Jeremy hooks one arm into the handle on the back of the Wedge. It’s a little awkward to shoot this way, but infinitely safer, and it keeps him tethered to the truck through all the sharp turns and the one terrifying time they dive off an overpass.

“Jeremy!” Gavin calls, “take this!” He looks over to see Gavin waving a sticky bomb at him through the passenger window.

Gavin leans out the window and tosses him a bomb. Jeremy catches it and lobs it at a cop car on the other side of the Wedge from him. “Blow it!” He calls. Gavin detonates the bomb, cheering at the bright explosion that follows. Gavin tosses him another bomb; Jeremy throws it as far as he can into the pack of cops following them. The explosion sends pieces of white-and-black cars flying every which way. Gavin tosses him a dozen or so more, pausing every so often so Jeremy can shoot the cops that get too close, until they’re out of bombs.

“We’re running out of distractions, here,” Gavin says over comms, “are you clear?”

“Just about!” Jack says, “go ahead and get on out of there. In one piece, preferably.”

Ryan must have been waiting for that cue; he suddenly makes a beeline for the freeway. Jeremy clings tightly to the Wedge again, lowering his gun for the moment. He’ll take out any cars that get close enough to shoot, but for now, he’s better off leaving them alone. Don’t poke the hornet’s nest, and all that.

“We’re gonna have to get a new car,” Gavin says, “there’s too much fuss about this one.”

Jeremy purses his lips. “Want me to call in one of mine?” He asks.

“Nah,” Gavin says, “We’ve got something stashed right around the corner. We’ll ditch this and grab it.”

“Get ready to bail,” Ryan says. For one thing, Jeremy would like to know _how the fuck_ the man always manages to sound so cheerful in the face of death and dismemberment. For another, Jeremy would like to slap him for his never-ending cheer, because it really grates on his nerves sometimes.

“Now!” Gavin screeches, right as Ryan drives the Wedge off the side of the freeway where there’s a gap in the guard rail. Jeremy bails, heavily disoriented by the launch and the fall, and he doesn’t get his feet under him in time to land. The fall isn’t far enough to kill him, thankfully, but he lands painfully on his ribs, all the breath leaving him in a whoosh. He lays there and pants for a long moment, the world spinning around him.

Ryan hauls him up and half-drags him over to their stashed vehicle. It’s a dark, nondescript sedan, but with tinted windows and heavy armor. The tires are probably bulletproof, too, Jeremy thinks dazedly. Ryan gets him into the backseat and goes to buckle him in—which is sweet, but he’s not _dead_, he can buckle himself, thank you. Jeremy waves Ryan off and fumbles with the seatbelt for a full minute before tucking the buckle under his ass. Seat belts aren’t _that_ important anyways.

The long, winding way they take back to the penthouse leaves Jeremy with plenty of time to think. His thoughts turn back to the idiots in the front seats. Honestly, when he first joined the Fakes, he was a little put out at the thought of Ryan teaming up with anyone but him. It took a little while for the jealousy to fade. What helped most was watching Geoff and Ryan interact. The two could bounce ideas around for twenty minutes and come away with a solid plan to rob the most heavily guarded bank in town. And besides that, the two obviously enjoy each other’s company.

It’s good, Jeremy thinks, for Ryan to have friends. He’s aware of the Vagabond’s early reputation as a lone wolf, as an assassin without a crew. The Fakes clearly changed that. Watching Ryan interact with _Gavin_, though, is different from watching him interact with the rest of the crew, or even with Geoff. It’s an unlikely friendship, and Jeremy’s still not so sure what to think of it.

Like when Gavin leans over and says, “Ryan, there’s a _biker_, Ryan,” and without so much as a twitch of his lips, Ryan runs over the offending biker. Gavin cheers loudly and laughs, giggling in that way he does when he’s still keyed up on adrenaline. It’s little things like that; when Gavin says to do something, Ryan _does it_, whatever it is, without question. Ryan follows orders on heists, sure, but he usually has input, or he’ll put his own spin on things. When Gavin asks for something, Ryan pretty much always goes out of his way to do it, and that’s so…_unlike _Ryan, it makes Jeremy’s head spin.

“Did you get any good selfies?” Ryan asks out of the blue. It’s so random that Jeremy’s pretty sure he’s hit his head until Gavin perks up and scrolls through his phone.

“I did!” Gavin says, swiping through his gallery at the speed of light, “The explosions made for a beautiful backdrop.” He turns to the side and grins. “Thanks for that, Lil’ J.”

Jeremy absolutely must have hit his head. “You threw sticky bombs at me…so I could chuck them at the LSPD…so you could take _selfies_?!” He asks, voice getting higher and higher pitched.

Ryan and Gavin both laugh at the tone of his voice. Gavin pulls up a picture and shows it to him. “Look how pretty your explosions were, Jeremy!” The picture is a selfie, Gavin grinning widely in the forefront, Ryan at the wheel behind him. He must have turned the Wedge right as an explosion went off; behind Ryan, out his window, is the dark cloud of the end of an explosion, lit from within by bright flame. It’s a great picture, and Jeremy’s impressed that Gavin caught the right moment. The explosion is just bright enough to look pretty, but not bright enough to make Ryan a complete silhouette.

“I got some of you, too!” Gavin says, and he swipes a dozen or so times until he stops on a picture of Jeremy looking down the sight of his rifle, clearly shooting a cop car that came too close. Gavin must have hit the detonator and took a picture, because a cop car in the background hangs midair, mid-explosion.

Jeremy wants to use it as every contact photo ever. “Damn,” he says, impressed, “send that one to me.”

“Did you get any good ones of me?” Ryan asks, and Jeremy can _hear_ the pout in his voice.

Gavin shoots him a glare. “Of _course_ I did, Rye. You’re driving. I’m not showing you pictures while you’re driving.”

Ryan huffs, but says no more. There’s silence for a grand total of ten seconds.

Gavin looks up from his phone and jolts a little. “Look, Ryan,” he says, “another biker.”

Jeremy winces at the telltale _th-THUMP_ of someone crunching under the bumper. A lone siren wails behind them. _Goddammit_. Jeremy fumbles with his seatbelt with renewed vigor. He’s going to need it, if the way Ryan steps on the gas is any indication.

“Geoff, I need you to do me a favor,” he says over comms. “Never leave me in the hands of Team Love ‘n Stuff again.”

Ryan and Gavin laugh, both sounding utterly delighted. “Oh, hey,” Gavin says, speaking into the comms for Geoff’s benefit. “We’ve got extra sticky bombs in the glove compartment!”

“The distraction—the heist is _over_, guys,” Geoff pleads, “no more distractions. You distracted the hell out of them. You were very distracting!” Jeremy finally clicks his seatbelt in and does a quick victory dance before grabbing onto the door and hanging on for dear life. “Good job, team. Lay low and come home,” Geoff says firmly.

Gavin rolls down his window, leans out, chucks a sticky bomb, and takes a selfie all in one smooth motion. Jeremy watches, resigned, as the explosion lights up the back of Gavin’s head.

“Sorry, Geoff, what was that?” Ryan asks, sounding entirely unrepentant. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of the explosions.”

Jeremy would facepalm if he wasn’t so invested in clinging to the door. The Fakes are fucking ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have the next chapter written WHOOPS


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the end!! Thank you for sticking with me this long. I have some notes at the end; a bigger thank you, some notes on the story, and info on my next couple of works.

When all else fails, Gavin knows he can trust Ryan.

It’s not like he can’t trust the rest of the Fakes. Geoff is his big brother from another mother. Michael is his _boi_, his best friend, the person who’s always there for him. Jack is practically his mom with her momma-bear tendencies. Lindsay is chaos, sure, but Gavin knows she’d put her life on the line for him, and he’d do the same for her. Jeremy goofs off a lot, sure, but he's capable of wild destruction should anything go wrong. Trevor would do _anything_ to keep the boys in his crew safe, would do anything and everything in his power to help if someone was genuinely in trouble. Alfredo’s always there with a listening ear and steady hands to either patch someone up or enact revenge. Matt’s help is mostly preventative, like with his security systems and network of cameras, but Gavin’s seen him operate offensively, too. The entirety of the B-Team is always there to provide backup, no matter how much or how little. And Fiona will bully the source of _anyone’s_ woes.

But right now, Gavin trusts _Ryan_.

It’s the botched job to end all botched jobs. The Fakes were contracted months ago by a crew called the Rabid. Gavin’s never been a huge fan of the Rabid; the members wear different animal masks from the shop in Vespucci, and act like crazed animals on a hunt. The jobs they do are messy and bloody. They slaughter everyone in their path, even innocents, to the point where even the _Vagabond_ is disgusted with their methods. So Gavin wasn’t thrilled when Trevor accepted the contract.

There’s been very little direct contact between the Fakes and the Rabid, though, and Gavin likes it that way just fine. The job was a pretty thorough data-check of several members of a shared rival crew, the Pisces. And Gavin feels a little bad turning the Pisces over to the Rabid, especially knowing everyone will get slaughtered, but the Pisces have been a thorn in the Fakes’ side for years now. It’s in their best interest to get rid of them, especially if they buy some time on the Rabid’s good side.

Gavin’s been doing his job carefully and quietly from the comfort of his apartment in Little Seoul. He’d started work in the penthouse, but the guys have been working on a big new heist and frankly? Gavin needs some actual goddamn peace and quiet for once. So he’d retreated to one of his cheaper apartments to do his work.

The only problem with a cheap, out-of-the-way apartment is that security isn’t as tight as it is with the penthouse or Gavin’s own high-end apartment.

And lax security means even smart criminals like Gavin can get compromised.

It’s quite a pickle he’s gotten himself into this time. A sniper round had taken out his best laptop out of _nowhere_, and Gavin knows it was a warning more than an attempt on his life. He’s not sure who took the shot, whether it’s the Rabid or the Pisces after him, but he’d bet his favorite gold sunglasses it’s the Rabid. The damn fools like to play with their food.

Gavin’s curled up in the hallway between the bedroom and the living room, trying very hard to stay out of sight of the door and the windows on either side of him. He’s not in a great place by _any_ means, and if the sniper could take the shot with his blinds fully closed, they clearly know where he is. There’s probably a bug in the apartment somewhere. The only problem is that Gavin’s not sure if it’s a wire or a camera.

He decides to take his chances and pulls out his phone.

“Seoul,” Gavin hisses when Ryan picks up, “sniper. _Now_.”

Ryan doesn’t even bother to respond, just hangs the fuck up, and Gavin is _so _grateful for his laser focus. Ryan’ll be here soon, he soothes himself, it’ll be fine.

Someone knocks on his door.

It won’t be fine, Gavin thinks grimly. He quickly ducks down to the floor and pulls himself along as best he can towards his bedroom, closing the door behind him. If he keeps his head down, he might keep it. There are three different locks on his front door. Two more on his bedroom door. If he hides in the closet or under the bed, he can buy himself time.

Gavin slinks over to the closet, opens it, and closes it again. Then he very carefully and quietly rolls under his bed. His pistol is still on the kitchen table where he sat doing his work, and he’s not in reach of any of the weapons he has stashed throughout the house. He _does_ have his shoelaces, though, and the little gold knife Ryan gifted him several years ago. He carefully and quietly grabs the knife from his pocket, slips one of his shoelaces out, and gets himself in a position where he can see the door.

His front door bursts open loudly, his pursuers having busted through it. Gavin grimaces. It didn’t sound like a breaching charge, but if they’ve got an axe or something similar, he might be done for. The lock on the bedroom gives them more pause, thankfully. It’s one of Matt’s crazy creations, and Gavin is _infinitely_ grateful for the man’s genius now. He’ll buy Matt a whole damn donut shop if he survives this.

The bedroom door gives eventually, though. Gavin watches with bated breath as four pairs of booted feet walk in and surround the closet. He smirks. Clearly, the bug they planted only recorded sound. He inches towards the other side of the bed quietly. There’s more men than he thought would come after him; his shoelace will do nothing good for him, here, so he tucks it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Come on out, Free,” one of the men says, still facing away from him. “We have you surrounded. Any funny business and our sniper will take care of you.”

Gavin doesn’t respond, but he does glance at his phone. There’s a notification from Ryan.

_Hawk down._

The Rabid, then. And Ryan’s taken care of the sniper. Good. He might be able to get out the window, then. Gavin purses his lips. All he needs is a little more time.

_Coming down_, he types back, _this is gonna hurt._

_I got you_, Ryan texts.

Gavin takes a deep breath. He scoots over until he can see down the hallway past the four men shifting nervously around his closet. With a quick flick of his wrist, he throws his beloved golden knife as far as he can down the hallway, where it clunks against the wall loudly.

What happens next comes in snapshots. Gavin sees the underside of his bed, the window, the carpet, then the side of his bed as he rolls out from underneath it. A brief glance towards the hall, and he sees three backs turned to him, the fourth person halfway turned towards him. He sees the window as he scrambles to his feet and charges towards it, shoulder-first, and then he sees the shitty, off-white, peeling paint on the outside of his building. Bullets whiz over his head, one of them catching his flung-out leg, and Gavin sees the ground several stories below him.

He sees blue and black and white, too, just before something snags him by the shirt and _yanks_. His shirt rips from the force of it, and Gavin smacks _hard_ into the side of the building, the breath leaving his lungs in a _whoosh_. He’s tugged through a busted window and into safety, and he supposes he couldn’t complain about the rough treatment even if he wanted to, the wind having been thoroughly knocked out of him.

It’s quiet for maybe five minutes before Gavin gets pulled out of his stupor by the sound of a door busting open, loud gunfire following it. He just breathes, though, breathes and wills his frantic heart to calm. He keeps his eyes tightly closed, watching colors spiral beneath his eyelids rather than the bullets whizzing around him. The gunfire slows and then quiets after a few minutes of back-and-forth. Gavin’s counted six bodies hitting the floor. That’s the four that broke into his room, plus two more. With the sniper from earlier gone, that’s seven total.

If there were any others, they must have turned tail and ran, because it’s quiet for a long moment after. Finally, Ryan shuffles over to his side.

“You with me?” He asks.

Gavin blinks his eyes open, finally, and takes stock of the situation. They’re in someone’s apartment, several floors below Gavin’s own, but he and Ryan are the only ones there. The door is in splinters, shards of wood scattered around the doorway. Several bodies are visible from Gavin’s position.

The Vagabond leans over him, eyes soft, brows knitted together in concern, lips twisted halfway between a pout and a grimace. His facepaint is immaculate, but his hair is messy, halfway falling out of the ponytail, strands of it framing his face.

“Thanks, Rye,” he says simply, but he grins.

Ryan huffs at him, but settles an arm under his back and gently lifts him into a sitting position, scooting him over a little to lean against the wall. He grabs a throw blanket from the couch they’re using as cover and wraps it tightly around the graze on Gavin’s calf.

Gavin hisses at the pain. “Who’s outside?” He asks.

Ryan shrugs. “Not sure,” he says, “no one gave me any trouble after I killed the hawk.”

“I meant from ours,” Gavin clarifies, because he’s honestly surprised no one’s come running and hollering at them yet.

Ryan won’t meet his eyes.

“Vagabond,” Gavin says, “_Rye_.”

“I didn’t call anyone,” Ryan mutters.

Gavin gapes at him, aghast. Ryan didn’t call the Fakes for backup? He did this _alone?_ It hits him, then, just _who_ sits next to him, frowning and carefully pressing a blanket to his bleeding leg. Los Santos’s most wanted man, the world’s most dangerous mercenary, the Fake’s deadliest assassin, tends to Gavin’s wound with surprising gentleness. He forgets, sometimes, just what Ryan is capable of. He’d turned a blind eye to the death tolls, to the expense reports detailing property and vehicle damages, to the messy murders they both commit for _fun_. He’d forgotten to be afraid of the Vagabond.

But Gavin doesn’t feel fear now. He feels safe, protected. He feels _awed_ by the man before him, amazed by his skill and his dedication to keeping his friends safe. Ryan had gone after the Rabid by himself, with no backup to speak of, trusting Gavin to hold his own for long enough to come get him. He’d scrapped together a plan in minutes, enacted it in time to keep Gavin from plummeting to his death, and then cleaned up the entire force sent to kill him.

There aren’t really words for the gratitude and awe Gavin feels, none that are adequate. He leans against Ryan’s worn leather jacket and smiles. “Thanks, Rye,” he says again, softer. Ryan doesn’t look at him, eyes downcast, pretending to focus on Gavin’s leg. “I’ll order takeout on the way back?” Gavin offers.

Ryan harrumphs, but acquiesces, and he helps him to his feet. “I’ll text Trevor about your apartment,” he says, “B-Team can clean things up. Is there anything of value?”

Gavin winces in pain as they start walking, Ryan’s arm looped around his middle to take some of his weight. “My little knife,” he says mournfully, “and my laptop, though it’s got a bullet through it. The hard drive should be salvageable unless they smashed it.”

They make it out to Ryan’s car with no trouble. The cops haven’t shown up yet, but Gavin can hear sirens steadily getting closer, so it’s best they leave quickly. Ryan deposits him gently in the passenger seat, and once they’re both buckled in, they’re off. Gavin carefully positions the blanket so that he won’t drip blood on the interior of the Zentorno. It’s a bitch to get out, and it seems like a shitty way to repay Ryan for his heroics. On that note, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and orders Chinese takeout, from the place by del Perro that Ryan _adores_.

Ryan pulls up to his own apartment, a place Gavin’s familiar with already. They thankfully don’t run into any of Ryan’s neighbors, which would be _awkward_, because here the Vagabond and the Golden Boy are walking around in broad daylight. It would take too long to wipe off the facepaint and take off their gear, though, time that Ryan clearly doesn’t think is worth it with the state of Gavin’s leg. _Damn it_, Gavin thinks, Ryan’s gone soft. He’s not worth Ryan’s favorite apartment; they should have played it safe and gone to the penthouse.

They get inside with no trouble, though, and Ryan shoos him to the bathroom and helps him clean and stitch the wound. Gavin bandages it himself so Ryan can answer the door and get the takeout. He shucks off his shoes and then swings into Ryan’s room to borrow a T-shirt, because his own shirt is ripped horribly.

“Do we have to find a new takeout place?” Gavin asks when he pads out to the living room, because Ryan hadn’t wiped his facepaint off yet. And while Gavin wishes he could have seen the look on the delivery-person’s face, they _liked_ that takeout place. Their lo mein was to _die _for.

Ryan doesn’t answer immediately. A quick glance over reveals why—Ryan’s leather jacket is in a heap on the floor, along with his vest, rifle, and the pistol he keeps tucked into his waistband. Ryan himself stands by the door, takeout bag dangling from his hand, dressed in only his jeans, black T-shirt, and _a rubber horse mask_.

“_Ryan!”_ Gavin shrieks, laughing. Ryan’s not making any sound, but Gavin can tell he’s laughing too, because the horse’s nose starts wiggling slightly. “When did you get _that?!”_ Gavin demands.

Ryan unfreezes and starts laughing, his breathy chuckles muffled by the mask. He walks over to the couch and plops the bag on the coffee table. “Spoils of war,” he says gravely, the dramatic little shit.

Gavin can’t stop giggling at the sight of the damn mask, so he tugs it off, mussing Ryan’s hair in the process. “Bloody _brilliant_,” he snickers.

“What?” Ryan asks, sounding miffed. He takes out his ponytail to smooth his hair back into normalcy, letting it fall in waves around his shoulders. “I _like_ this takeout place.”

Gavin bursts out laughing all over again, but doesn’t poke further. It’s his favorite Chinese place, too, and he’s glad they don’t have to find another. They settle down on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, styrofoam boxes balanced on their laps, chopsticks in hand. Ryan hands an Xbox controller to him, brow raised, and Gavin accepts it with a grin.

“Halo?” He asks through a mouthful of noodles.

“Halo,” Ryan nods, and he doesn’t even have to get up to change the disk, because they almost always play Halo when they’re over here. They play Hitman, too, but Halo is easier when you’ve got a box of noodles and eggrolls on your lap. Which is the usual for them, by this point.

And it’s good, Gavin thinks. This is _good_. Despite the scare not even an hour earlier, despite his bruised ribs and the stitches in his calf, he feels _good_. His crew is taking care of his raided apartment. His wounds are minor. He’s got Ryan to watch his back.

More than that, he has the _Vagabond_ on his side. And that’s proven to be worth his weight in gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!!!! =D
> 
> First of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH for sticking with me for the past six weeks. I've been sitting on this story for months, now, and it feels good to get it all out there. I hadn't planned on continuing this series, but I loved the idea of a chapter from each person in the crew's perspective, and Team Love 'N Stuff was the perfect candidate. I greatly enjoyed sharing this with you, especially seeing your reactions to each chapter. Thank you all for supporting this fic <3
> 
> Second, some notes on this chapter. I wanted to show Gavin and Ryan hanging out doing something OTHER than murdering or heisting. But I didn't want it to seem special or monumental. By this point in the story, spending time together outside of work is normal for them. So the time they spend playing video games only lasts a couple of paragraphs, and even then, it's dwarfed by Gavin's thoughts on the Vagabond. Which brings me to another point. At the beginning of this fic, Ryan realized he needed to get Gavin to meet RYAN rather than the Vagabond. So far, even when they've been on murder-jobs or heists, Gavin's been mentally thinking of his crewmate as Ryan. They've been goofing off and having fun. But now the Vagabond's come back out to play, and not only is Gavin not scared of him, he embraces the Vagabond as a friend and protector. 
> 
> Lastly! I have two more stories in the works as a continuation of Murder Selfie. One of them is just about done and I'll begin posting in the next couple weeks. I just need to find a day that works to post. It will likely be Friday or Saturday. =)


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